October, 1936

I've spent quite some time in dead silence. I lost count of how many days it's been since my illness began. It hasn't gotten better nor has it gotten worse, which I suppose could be considered a good thing. I can drink more than water, but my intake of solids is limited to bland porridges. It may as well be a mix of flour and water used to make paper mâché. I can have broth, but even that's been watered down considerably. I'm still being expected to complete the work I was given. I got three assignments done. I suppose that's something, but I'm not convinced it'll be enough. Sometimes, I can focus, but other times, the words on paper seem to swim and blur and I can't do anything except stare into space until the dizzy feeling subsides. Not even sleep. Just lie awake and stare at nothing.

I keep dreaming about snakes. I'm not sure if it's a good thing or a bad thing that I've gotten used to that, but the frequency and vividness is concerning. The pain and static in my head typically won't occur as long as I'm not making eye contact with any of the snakes. Whenever they appear in my room, I lay back and close my eyes. I feel them crawling and slithering over me. I can feel their heads touching my chin, and occasionally feel their narrow, forked tongues brushing against my skin. Most people would have found this absolutely terrifying. Me? I was… oddly at peace.

A particularly large and docile snake, probably a boa constrictor, positioned itself under my neck, acting a bit like a pillow. Not a very soft one, but it felt good to change positions after having laid here for quite some time. Several smaller snakes were on top of me, moving around slowly, unafraid. I kept my eyes shut, and gently put my hands under the snakes to lift them from my stomach. Feeling them slithering around my hands was an… interesting feeling. The moment a couple of them wrapped around my wrists, however, I was suddenly thrust into a vision where I was staring at black Egyptian cobras around my wrists and hands. There were hundreds of them crawling all over me. I heard a man's voice calling my name, telling me to wake up. Panic surged through me, and I sat upright. All the snakes had disappeared.

I must have sat up too quickly for my stomach's liking. A tidal wave of nausea crashed into me, and I nearly fell out of bed searching for the rubbish bin. Fortunately, I found it before disaster struck. I wasn't sure how late it was, but I tried to keep my chundering quiet as to not wake everyone else in the house. I wasn't entirely quiet, as shortly after I finished emptying what little I had in my stomach into the rubbish bin, my bedroom door opened, and Michael peered inside.

"You alright, Jack?" he whispered.

I nodded. "Sorry if I woke you."

"It's okay." Michael knelt to help me stand and get me back in bed. "I wasn't fully asleep anyway."

I knew poor Michael hadn't been sleeping well since I became sick. I wish he wouldn't worry about me so much. It worries me, because I don't want the same thing happening to him. "You do need to sleep," I said.

"Can't." Michael felt my forehead. "I'll get a cold compress."

I opened my mouth to argue, but decided against it. It would be pointless anyway.

Michael returned a moment later with a cold, damp washrag, which he placed on my forehead. He also disappeared to get a glass of water, which I greatly appreciated as it would get the horrid taste of sick out of my mouth.

I looked up at him when I handed him the empty glass. He's only nineteen, but he looked far older with the dark circles under his eyes. "You really do need to sleep," I said. "You'll get sick, too."

"Nobody even knows what's wrong with you." Michael sighed. "That's… part of the problem, honestly."

"You nearly got in a fight because someone told you I was going to die. You're not…"

"No. I don't want to think that. The thought creeps in sometimes, and I… I can't sleep. I'm afraid of waking up and finding out you're gone."

"I don't think that'll happen. I'll be alright."

"How can you be sure?"

I shrugged. "I'm slowly improving." I'm not sure how true that is. "We just have to be patient, I guess."

"Father's not being patient. He's frustrated all the time now, but he also seems worried."

"Well, I'm doing those bloody assignments."

"You should be resting."

"I know I should be resting." I didn't bother telling Michael that he was technically keeping me from resting by being in here and talking to me. "Father doesn't seem to get that."

We sat in silence for a little while. Michael looked like he was finally getting tired. I tried getting comfortable and looking tired myself in an attempt to silently convince him to get some sleep. Instead of going to his bedroom, Michael sat in my chair, put one of my blankets over himself, and went to sleep. At least he was sleeping. I'll give him that.

I awoke to my mother sighing as she entered my room. "Of course. There you are, Michael. Come on, lad, go on down for breakfast." She turned to me once Michael left. "How are you feeling, Jack?"

"No better, no worse," I said.

"Alright. I'll go get some tea started for you. Do you want a hot water bottle or anything?"

"No, thanks."

My mother left the room without another word. When she returned with a cup of herbal tea, she felt my forehead, then gently massaged my scalp. "Do you think you can eat anything?"

"I would like something more than bland porridge," I said.

"We can give that a try. Getting something more substantial in you should help. You seem to want to eat, which is good." Her tone suggested that her mind was elsewhere. I wasn't sure how to reassure her, or Michael. Was it even worth the effort?

My mother returned a little while later with a small bowl of porridge that had honey and a bit of brown sugar mixed in. That small amount of sweetness made everything a little better, and I had to keep myself from eating too fast. It was a step forward. A small one, but it was better than nothing. When I finished, however, I was afraid that every little step forward would be followed by a few steps back. Was this a permanent phenomenon? Was I reduced to an invalid? Could anything help me now? Anything?

November, 1936

I was seen by a few doctors over the last few weeks. I seemed to be improving, but it was difficult to walk without feeling dizzy, I was burdened with fever, and every few days, I would have vicious nausea that prevented me from eating or drinking anything. The only thing I neglected to discuss were the snakes. I was terrified of what that would result in.

As the days and nights ticked by, I began wondering if the snakes were the key to my illness and recovery. I already dealt with seizures and nosebleeds whenever I interacted with snakes while healthy. But… why? Why snakes? I wasn't afraid of them, or had a particular fondness for them. They seemed drawn to me, though.

There were nights where they wouldn't show, unless they did and I don't remember. There also came nights where yet another problem came up: sleepwalking. Well, sleep-stumbling would be a more accurate term. I found myself regaining consciousness in rooms all over the house some nights. Sometimes it would be very early in the morning, and I could drag myself back to bed without anyone noticing. Other times, Michael would find me when he came down for breakfast, and brought me back upstairs. He remained diligent in his self-proclaimed duties to me, no matter how many times I told him to go take care of himself.

On the days when I could eat, my mother and Michael tried making things that were more substantial than plain porridge and watery broth, hoping that give me a fighting chance against whatever this is. Late in the month, Michael came up with an altered recipe for gingersnaps, adding slightly more ginger and making them as soft as possible. He even brought me down to the drawing room to let me sit in front of the fireplace and give me a change of scenery. I greatly appreciated it, so much so that it was difficult to express verbally.

It was amazing how much better I felt just being in a different place for a change. The sound of the fireplace and soft music from the radio made me feel much more… human. Less like a bothersome patient. The silence of being in my bedroom for days on end was coming close to driving me to insanity. Maybe this was what I needed. Something more loving, without people constantly whispering and giving me looks like they were afraid I was going to drop dead any moment.

Michael and I played a few rounds of chess over tea and gingersnaps. The gingersnaps were the first truly solid thing I had in weeks and for once, my stomach seemed grateful rather than resentful of everything under the sun. The slightest movements didn't trigger any dizzy spells, nor was I hallucinating snakes everywhere. That was the best I felt in so many weeks. By that afternoon, I almost felt as though I was truly recovering. Better yet, Michael looked happier and less stressed. He seemed hopeful, and I heard him say to my mother that perhaps this was something that we needed to do daily until I recovered.

The mood shifted drastically when my father came home from the university. All at once, silence fell over the house. He went into his study, without a word. There were no greetings to anyone. Before going into the kitchen to see my mother, he paused at the drawing room door to look at me. "I hope you're happy, Jack," he said. "The university has decided to postpone your schooling until next year. Your professors are all in agreement that it is best you focus on recovering from your 'mystery illness.'" His expression continued to sour, but there was a hint of sadness in his eyes. "Wonderful, isn't it? You could recover tomorrow, but you'll be sitting on your bum until next autumn!"

I was seated, but I started to feel a bit dizzy. I recognized the sensation—the cobra rearing up in my head. It slowly slithered forward, each breath a long, low hiss. To anyone watching, I was just staring ahead with intense focus.

"It's not like they're expelling him forever, Nick," my mother said.

"If you and Michael had quit trying to coddle him, we could have avoided this. We could have had a tutor—"

"For heaven's sake, Father, leave him alone!" Michael snapped.

Once again, silence filled the house, but it was a very heavy, tense silence. I suddenly found myself wanting to run away and never look back, combined with a desire to cry. I'm 25 and I wanted so badly to just… cry. Cry like a child. Cry like I was lost and couldn't find my way home. I couldn't explain why this was so upsetting. It felt like everything was falling apart. Everything.

Michael is hard to anger. Here, his face was red, and there were veins bulging on his neck and forehead. It was quite frightening, honestly, seeing such a normally calm and friendly young man be so enraged. He was never one to talk back to someone in a position above him, whether that be our parents, a professor, or headmaster. He normally treated everyone with respect, even during arguments, never shouting or using insults when speaking his point. To see him lose his temper was perhaps one of the rarest phenomena in the world.

The longer the silence persisted, the more I wanted to run off, and the angrier Michael became.

Mother broke the silence. "Michael, don't you ever talk to your father like that—"

"Don't pretend you don't agree with me," Michael growled. "We both have been trying so hard to help Jack while Father continued to bully him! It's nobody's fault that they can't figure out what's wrong with Jack, but making him stressed and treating him like rubbish isn't going to help! Maybe that's we'll do the next time you're ill, Father! See how you—"

"Michael! That's enough!" Mother pushed him out of the kitchen. "Go upstairs. I don't want to hear another word out of you! You'll go to bed without supper!"

A third heavy silence came over the house, aside from Michael slamming shut his door. I hoped and prayed this was all just temporary, and that everyone would abandon their anger and come to their senses. At the same time, I felt—no, knew—that this was all my fault.

My mother brought me back upstairs without saying anything. I was tempted to ask what she was thinking, but the hardened expression on her face told me that she was in no mood to talk. After I was laid on my bed, Mother closed the door. In the privacy of my bedroom, I allowed myself to cry. It wasn't a lot of noisy sobbing, just tears running down my face, a hot, stinging feeling in my eyes. My throat was closed and my chest ached. There was the occasional sob here and there, but I felt it was best to be silent. My presence had clearly done more harm than good.

I wanted this to all be a bad dream. Why couldn't this have been a bad dream? Why?

Something large wrapped loosely around me. Through my tear-blurred vision, I made out the shape of a big species of python in my lap. I closed my eyes, knowing making eye contact with the snake would trigger the static in my brain. The python tapped my chin with its snout. For many, the idea of a large constrictor like this being around them is the stuff of nightmares. For me, just like with my dreams or hallucinations or whatever they are with all the venomous snakes, it was a strange source of comfort. The snake made no move to harm me. It touched its snout to my nose, and nuzzled my tear-stained face. The python was big enough that it could be hugged without being squished by accident. Hugging a snake. There's a strange thought for you.

Long after my tears stopped flowing, I kept my eyes closed, not wanting to ruin this experience. The python's purpose here seemed to be comforting me, even though I whispered occasionally that I didn't need it. I didn't deserve it. But, every time I said I didn't deserve it, the snake would reach up to nuzzle my face.

"Why has this happened?" I whispered.

Of course, the python didn't, or couldn't, respond. It gave me one more nuzzle, then slowly climbed down off of me and the bed. I opened my eyes when I was confident it wasn't making eye contact with me. The python slithered with fluid motion, graceful in spite of its size. It sat on the floor, tasting the air with its forked tongue, then beckoned me to follow with its tail. Curious, I got out of bed. I was slow and cautious, not wanting to be overcome by a dizzy fit. The big snake raised its tail, then rested it in my right hand.

I hadn't even realized it was quite late at night until I looked toward the window and saw a half-moon in a clear, black sky. I held the python's tail as it led me out into the hallway. For a moment, I was nervous that my parents would come out of their room to see this, but something deep down was telling me not to worry. The snake stopped in front of my brother's door, and raised its head. I shut my eyes just before it could look at me, then felt the weight of its tail vanish from my hand. When I opened my eyes, the python had disappeared.

I stood at the door, paying close attention to how I felt. I really didn't want to wake Michael if he was sleeping, but I figured the python had brought me here for a reason. I quietly opened the door, seeing Michael curled up in bed facing away from me and toward the window. He looked to be sleeping, so I wondered if I should leave. Before I could turn around, he shifted and turned toward me. "Jack?" he whispered.

"Yes? I… thought you were asleep," I said.

"Sort of. Been lying here for a while. How are you?"

"How am I? I'm more worried about you—"

"You're the one who's sick."

"But I'm the reason everyone's so angry."

"Close the door so we can talk." Michael sat up, moving so I could sit on the bed. "I'm really sorry I yelled."

"Why are you apologizing to me? You yelled at Father, not me."

"Yeah, but I still yelled in front of you. I shouldn't be causing you any stress."

"Michael, it's… it's alright," I said with a sigh. "Honestly, you said what needed to be said."

"Maybe partly, but I shouldn't have tacked on that thing about 'maybe we should treat you like this the next time you get sick.' That wasn't right."

"You were upset. I can't blame you."

"Still doesn't make it right."

"I know." I reached over to squeeze his hand. "As much as I appreciate you standing up for me, I don't need it. I don't…" I lowered my voice to a mere mumble, "…deserve it."

"What was that?"

I said nothing.

"Did you say you don't deserve it?"

Shyly, I nodded.

"Jack, none of this is your fault."

I shook my head. "No one would be angry if it hadn't been for me being sick."

"That's not your fault." Michael took my hand back when I let go, a look of concern rising from the depths of his emerald-green eyes. He looked like he was about to cry. "Everyone's upset because they don't know what to do, not because of you."

"Yes, but clearly something I did has caused this to happen."

"No. No, that's not true at all."

"You don't get it, Michael, I have been nothing but a burden on all of you. I-I can't get well. I can't stay on top of my studies. I can't please Father—"

"Jack, please don't say that. You're not a burden. Please." Michael squeezed my hand hard. "We're all worried."

"Well, you all need to do a better job expressing that worry, because it seems like I'm nothing but an inconvenience. I don't want to be coddled all the time, but it would be nice to just… feel cared about."

Michael looked like he didn't know what to say.

I touched his hand. "I didn't mean to direct any of that at you. You… You've actually been trying, and it's difficult for me to express how much I appreciate it."

He remained quiet for another long moment. "Wish there was more I could do. I don't know what to do anymore. Feels like nothing is working."

I was quiet while contemplating whether or not to tell him about the snake dreams and hallucinations. Out of everyone, I felt I could trust him to not overreact or become frightened, but this was so strange and unexplainable that I wasn't sure there was anyone I could trust with this. Including my own brother. It pained me to think that.

To see Michael becoming angry and seemingly losing hope all in the same day was a horrible thing. He was typically the one anyone could turn to if they needed a pep talk. When he was little, he strived to make people happy. Even as he was leaving his teenaged years behind and becoming a man, there was still a positive and easygoing energy behind his eyes, without naïveté. This had well and truly broke him, and I felt like it was my fault.

Michael hadn't lost all hope, which was good to see. He still tried to help. He would still come into my room late at night whenever I was having a bad sleep. The cycle of fever was happening less frequently, but with no less intensity, and it was particularly bad at night. However, it was early one evening about a week after Michael's outburst toward my father when I had a bout of chills so bad that I was curled up in a ball under my blankets and doing my best to not let any inch of my skin be uncovered. The whole time, I felt a very large presence on top of the blanket trying to coil around me, and something was telling me it was the same python that had tried comforting me just a week before.

The python was still there when Michael came in my room with a cup of tea, but it disappeared when he slowly lifted the blanket. "Jack? Are you alright?"

"Very… cold…" I stammered.

Michael put the blanket back over me. "I'll get a hot water bottle."

I tried my best to ball myself up tighter. The python reappeared, this time under the blanket, and wrapped around me. Its heavy, muscular body was quite warm, and I didn't dare move, terrified that would just prompt the circulation of cold air. The snake's head appeared underneath mine, and I heard a faint voice whispering, "Keep you safe… Keep you safe…"

Keep who safe? Keep me safe? Why?

Michael returned with the hot water bottle, and the python disappeared once more. "Where would you like this?" he asked.

"If there was a way to put it everywhere, I would ask for that," I said.

Michael ended up placing the hot water bottle against my chest. I figured that would be good enough, and lay there, still in a balled-up posture, while he kept looking outside my bedroom door. "Mother's going to call me for dinner soon. I'll be back."

That was alright. I had my hallucinated snake friend for company.

The python didn't stick around when the chill phase ended, and the heat phase began. I went from being under the covers to lying on top of them. I writhed on the bed, struggling to find a cool spot to lay. I felt as though a fire had been lit in my brain. The room wavered, snakes of all kinds slithered and twirled around me. I turned onto my right side, and found myself rolling out of bed. For whatever reason, I didn't particularly care. The floor was cooler than the bed anyway.

The snakes moved randomly at first, then gradually congregated to move in rhythmic motion, slithering together in one direction, each snake undulating at the same time. I was the audience to their performance. Their movements were simple, but beautiful, crawling around on the ceiling, the walls, everywhere. They moved in silent waves, all one coherent dance, a tapestry of colors, of individuals so carefully put together down to the last scale.

I lay there on the floor, in awe. I could no longer feel the burning of fever raging through my body. I wanted to lay there for hours. Lay there until my illness passed. Could I, please?

Quite abruptly, I awoke, and found Michael and my mother trying to pour cold water in my mouth. How I got from the floor to the bed, I don't know.

"Easy, Jack, it's just water," my mother said. "Relax. You'll be alright."

I became aware of a cold compress on my forehead. After taking a few sips of water, I gently motioned for the glass to be set aside. "What… What happened?"

"You must've been having a mad fever dream," Michael said. "I came in and you were rolling around on the floor like when we give catnip to Osiris."

I don't recall rolling around, but I guess the snake dance really was just a wild hallucination brought on by my fever. Well, the dance likely was. The snakes themselves weren't. At least, I don't think they were. There was something oddly real to them, yet they could only be seen by me. At this point, I can't tell what they were, or what they meant, and that was beginning to frighten me. As frightening as this was, I was still adamant to keep it to myself, because whatever lay in store for me if I revealed this was probably much, much worse.

That particular fever cycle ended not too long after I had been put back in bed and given plenty of water. It was quite late when Michael returned, holding a bowl covered by a towel.

"Aren't you supposed to be in bed?" I asked.

"Yes, but I wanted to check on you," Michael said.

"Aren't you tired of seeing me all the time?"

"That's a bit difficult when we live in the same house."

"I know, but you have friends, activities, schoolwork. You're not my nurse."

Michael took the towel off the bowl. "I brought gingersnaps."

As much as I wanted to tell Michael to go get some bloody sleep, I couldn't ignore the rumbling in my stomach. I sighed before reaching over to take a few of the gingersnaps. "Oh, alright."

"Do you want to go down to the parlor? I remember you started looking better just being in a different room."

"At this hour? It's nearly midnight."

Michael shrugged. "So?"

I didn't have the nerve to argue with that, so I let Michael help me out of bed and walk me downstairs. It was just the two of us, and we both had the sense to not be loud and risk waking our parents. On one hand, I felt a little less worthless, but on the other, I still wondered what I did to botch everything up.

Present Day, 1966

Jules let out his breath. "Wow… You're right, Dad. Grandpa… Grandpa really was different. Hard to believe that's the same person."

"It is hard to believe sometimes. I haven't thought much about all this until now," Moffitt replied.

"Did you ever find out what all the snakes meant?"

"Not entirely."

"I am not sure there is a specific meaning," Anah said. "I am willing to guess that the lack of control you had over your abilities at the time contributed to the severity of your symptoms."

"It is possible this… thing I had was supernatural in origin?"

"I would say it most definitely was. It would also explain why your parents and Michael were never affected by it."

"And it lasted nearly three months."

"Without proper treatment, that does not surprise me. Do you remember when and how it finally cleared up?"

"I remember… a little of it. Mostly I remember being angry at my father and the aftermath." Moffitt flipped through the pages in his journal, the memories beginning to flood back of how hostile everything became once he recovered.

"Why was Grandpa like that?" Jules asked. "You're never so dismissive of me whenever I'm sick."

"No, and I'd never dream of it. I learned later on that my father had lost a lot of people to various sicknesses, ones everyone knew about. I think the fact that mine was an anomaly pushed him over the edge. It certainly doesn't excuse his actions at all, and that combined with the pressure put on me to perform well in university was not a very good combination, as you can imagine."

"Kind of amazing that you ended up fixing things. Troy and Dietrich were treated pretty badly by their families, and they don't talk to them anymore."

"The big difference between my father and what Troy and Dietrich went through is that both me and my father wanted to fix things. Troy and Dietrich's families showed no interest in fixing things."

"Didn't one of Dietrich's brothers try to mend things a few years ago?"

"Yes, but that's still a bit different. Your grandfather and I were both willing to sit down and talk about our faults immediately afterward, rather than letting it fester for decades, and… I was bold enough to do something that made my father realize what he was going to lose if he didn't think about what he did wrong."

"Didn't you run away to Morocco?"

"I don't really consider it running away. To some, it seems that way, but I needed time alone. A lot of time alone, and I think—" Moffitt looked through his journal. "I do write extensively about my decision, and I remember it wasn't just because of what happened between me and my father. I think I have a whole journal on that trip somewhere in the box I pulled out. I'm not sure you want to hear that one, as it's quite boring. I was alone aside from brief stays with Bedouin tribes for well over forty days."

"I thought you said it was really dangerous to be wandering the desert by yourself."

"If you don't know what you're doing. I knew what I was doing, but I also… didn't care."

Jules was quiet, looking deep in thought. "I can't imagine Michael approved of what you did."

Moffitt shook his head. "No, he didn't, but we worked things out as well. It took a bit of time, and a lot of late-night talks, but we did." A dull ache started in his chest. "I wish you could've met him. I see a lot of Michael in you sometimes."

"Does that… bother you at all?"

"It used to. Now, not so much."

"Did you keep any pictures of him?"

"I have a few. Most are at your grandparents' home. I did have one picture of all of us at my graduation from Cambridge on one of the shelves out in the drawing room, but I hid it when you were born because… I didn't want you asking who the young man in the picture with me was. At the time, I wasn't… I wasn't ready to talk about it. I don't think I ever would've been if the magpies hadn't tried convincing you that I was a murderer." Moffitt slid a bookmark in his journal before setting it on the bed and standing to go in the closet. There was a shoebox on a shelf, tucked beside an old riding helmet. The shoebox was covered in dust from never being touched in years.

For the longest time, Moffitt had been afraid of it.

He opened it to make sure it was the box he was thinking of, and seeing the framed picture of his graduation told him that it indeed was. He pulled the box out, and sat back down next to Jules. "Every picture in this box relates to your uncle. I haven't looked at any of them in roughly twenty years." He handed the box to Jules. "You can take these and look at them at your leisure."

"Thanks," Jules said.

Moffitt took his journal from the bed, taking a long look at the page he stopped at.

Anah nuzzled him. "Is this getting to be a bit much for you?"

"No. I can keep going. We're almost there."